


In My Brother's Shadow

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bodyswap, Drama, First Time, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-25
Updated: 2007-04-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 11:17:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8710465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: A freak accident leads to the brothers getting to know one another in ways neither of them had ever thought possible.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

Title: In My Brother’s Shadow

Author: Jinni (jinni.tth@gmail.com)

Rated: NC17

Pairing: Sam/Dean

Disclaimer: All things SPN belong to Eric Kripke, et al.

Warnings: Slash,Wincest, Gratuitous use of body!swap cliché.

Notes: So, I asked my beta, Sierraphoenix, if she’d rather see a Wincest body!swap fic, or a wereleopard!Sam/Dean fic… and she said body!swap. Well, here it goes. 

Summary: A freak accident leads to the brothers getting to know one another in ways neither of them had ever thought possible.

 

 

CHAPTER ONE

 

The force of the blow made Dean’s head snap around, jaw rattling, light exploding behind eyes that had snapped shut on instinct alone as the meaty fist swung his way. He saw stars, shooting bursts of light against the darkness of his eyelids, as pain burst through his skull. Fuck, that hurt. He ducked instinctively, dropping and rolling across the dusty, dirty ground as a heavy arm swung through the air right where his head had just been. Son of a bitch was tough, he’d give it that. Hell, he wasn’t even sure what _it_ was. The morons that had summoned or created or…whatever… the damn thing was hadn’t stuck around long enough to provide him with any details on its history. Or even a way to kill it. Admittedly, that was probably partially his fault for yelling at them and threatening to kick all their scrawny, pasty asses.

 

_Punk kids messing with things they don’t understand_ , Dean thought viciously, swearing that if he didn’t get out of this alive he was going to haunt those D&D geeks until the day _they_ died. 

 

He backpedaled quickly to avoid the lumbering kick that was aimed his way, marveling again at the hulking brute of a thing that was currently running him ragged around this old barn. It looked sort of like a minotaur, except with a cow’s head instead of a bull’s. For that reason, it wasn’t nearly as scary as it should have been. Oh, sure, it was big and nasty, but it wasn’t something he was going to have nightmares about, either. Especially considering the little tag on one ear said that they’d plucked their test subject right off of one of the nearby farms. Hell, maybe even the farm he was on right at that moment. The body of the creature was human enough, though, Dean supposed. Except, damn, this dude had been _big_ in the popping steroids like a mother fucker kind of way. Now he was just some poor sap with the head of a dairy cow, grunting and mooing, hell bent on death and destruction. The brain had obviously come from the cow, too, judging by the slow reaction time and the somewhat dull, confused glaze over its eyes. 

 

If this was what farm kid geeks got up to when they were bored, Dean was damn glad he’d never lived in the country. As it was, he made a mental note to find these little creeps and shoot them with rock salt to try to scare some sense into them. Sure, it was a dude with a cow head _now_ , but what would their next little trick be? 

 

Okay, enough of that for now, time to think. It looked like a human-slash-animal, maybe it would go down as easy as one. He sort of hated to think about how the fuck he was going to destroy the evidence of this thing once he _did_ manage to kill it, but whatever. He’d deal with that when the time came. Right now he needed to just concentrate on –

 

“Son of a –“ Dean swore, narrowly avoiding another slam to the head. A concussion was so _definitely_ not what he needed tonight. Not when he was out hunting on his own. Dad was four states over and Sam… well, Sam was closer than Dean wanted to think about, given that it had been a year since he’d even spoken to his baby brother. Besides, Dean doubted Sam would want to play doctor and wake him up every hour, even if Dean _could_ swallow down his pain and pride and go ask him for help.

 

So, a concussion was definitely out of the question.

 

He ducked and dodged, one eye on the cow-man and the other on the gun that he’d dropped when he first walked into the barn. A few shots to the thing’s heart and hopefully he’d have this problem solved. 

 

Something whizzed by his head, so close that he felt the stir of air as it brushed past his ear, and Dean stumbled, then glanced over his shoulder, eyes widening. Oh, that was just great. Apparently smart enough to come up with the bright idea of throwing things, Cowman had found a rack of assorted farm tools and was using them as missiles. Rusty and sharp-looking, Dean didn’t even want to think about how much it was going to hurt if he got nailed with one of those things. Not to mention, he was pretty sure he was due for another tetanus shot. He turned, making another dash for the gun, just as another tool was thrown at him.

 

This time he dodged, but not quick enough. The tool – the fuck a _scythe_? – hit his arm as he whirled out of the way as best he could, and he knew he’d been hit by the burst of pain that shot through him. Within seconds he could feel the sticky wetness of blood dripping down his arm, just under the sleeve of his shirt, soaking through the fabric and leaving warmth where it went. 

 

Dean dove for the gun and rolled, ignoring the pain that lanced through the hurt arm as he turned on his back and fired. One shot. Two. Three. The thing didn’t even seem to realize it had been hit, reaching for another of the tools blindly.

 

One final round, squeezed off with as much precision as he could muster, and even in the darkness Dean could see that he’d hit the mark he was aiming for. One bullet, right between the eyes. 

 

It went down with a howl that sounded like a long, guttural, and more than a little demonic, moo, scattering dust and hay in a gust when it fell hard to the ground.

 

“Fuck,” Dean muttered under his breath. He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath; exhaled through his nose. Damn, his arm hurt. Stitches, definitely. Lots of them. Maybe even that tetanus shot. 

 

It took a few minutes’ doing, but he managed to get up from the floor, the gun hanging loosely in one hand as blood continued to drop down his other arm. Yeah, lots of stitches, and he’d have to do them himself.

 

For the second time that night, Dean thought of Sam. This time of those neat, perfect stitches his younger brother had always been so good at making. Like a fucking girl making a pillow, his brother was a whiz with a thread and needle.

 

But Sam wasn’t here. He’d have to manage. Wouldn’t be the first time.

 

The cow-man didn’t even twitch as Dean crossed the yards that separated them, and he took that as a good sign that the thing was good and dead. Now the tough part came. He could leave it here and let whoever found it deal with what it was and what it meant, or he could figure out a way to get rid of it. Fuck, he hated this part. Maybe he’d just drag the thing outside and torch it. 

 

He circled the corpse, hurt arm hanging loosely at his side, blood dripping down onto the ground as he walked. Those stupid kids had actually created some sort of hybrid. Pieced together two separate creatures to get something new and awful. Dean didn’t want to know what had happened to the rest of the man or cow. Somewhere there was a decapitated cow corpse and a human head. Unless they’d matched those up, too -

 

No, he wasn’t even going to _think_ about that, damnit. This was enough. This type of horror was _enough_.

 

His gaze flickered to the ground around the beast, noticing for the first time that it wasn’t just dust and stray bits of hay. There was something written on the ground. Drawn in what he assumed was paint. A circle? 

 

Squatting next to the body, he used his good hand to wipe away some of the dust, clearing off enough that he could start to get a general idea of what he was standing in the middle of. It was definitely a circle, the points marked out in what he assumed were most likely the right directions: north, east, south, west. This wasn’t where they’d done the spell they used tonight, though. He’d seen that on his way into the barn, complete with still-burning candles and some concoction of herbs that had made his eyes water as he walked through the smoke. Whatever _this_ circle was, it was for a different purpose. 

 

He turned slowly, balancing on the balls of his feet, eyes wandering over the symbols and words written in a language that he didn’t recognize, much less get any meaning from. Blood dripped down his arm, across his palm, traveling over the tips of his fingers, to drop in heavy, wet splotches over the words, obscuring them. 

 

A glimmer of something sparkled, just a faint flash in the corner of his eye, and Dean turned just as the words began to glow. Blood. Ritual. 

 

“Shit,” Dean swore, the words flaring up bright as the sun before he could even _think_ to get out of the circle that he had unwittingly just activated, the spell that his blood had acted as a catalyst for. The light grew impossibly brighter and Dean shut his eyes, his sense of balance thrown off. His knees hit the ground, hard, and his arms came forward instinctively to brace himself as he fell. 

 

But there was no pain.

 

“Mr. Winchester?”

 

Dean opened his eyes, blinking in confusion. The light was gone, but so was the barn. And his arm didn’t hurt anymore. He swallowed and glanced around, frowning when hair flopped into his eyes. He reached up to brush it out of his eyes and paused. That wasn’t his hand. Or his arm. That scar, though, right there just below the wrist, on the backside of tanned flesh, _that_ he recognized –

 

\- as a battle wound that his _brother_ had gotten just a few months before he’d left for Stanford --

 

“Is your oral report ready for presentation, Mr. Winchester?”

 

\- which apparently was where Dean was at _right now_ … in Sam’s body. Sitting in a class where _Sam_ needed to be giving some sort of report or something?

 

Fuck.

 

~*~*~

 

Okay. Not good. Not fucking good.

 

Sam shook his head, hoping that the sight in front of him would fade back to his Sociology classroom if he just blinked hard enough. Or prayed. Or…something.

 

It didn’t.

 

He sucked in a breath, exhaling shakily, all too aware of a stinging, dull throb of pain in his arm where there hadn’t been any before. He flexed his hand and felt the kind of sticky wetness that he was sadly familiar with, looked down and saw a ring that was even more familiar.

 

_Dean’s ring_.

 

Worse - Dean’s _**hand**_ , fingers flexing, just like Sam had sent the command to his brain to do. Which meant -

 

“Oh, shit,” Sam murmured, shifting so that he could get a better look at his other arm, as if he hoped to find something that would break the theory currently shaking him to his very soul. But there was Dean’s leather bracelet, just where it should be if this was Dean’s body.

 

_Fuck!_

 

There was something dead lying just in front of him, and some sort of spell circle around him, and Sam couldn’t help but feel like everything had just gone to hell in a hand basket.

 

If he was here, then Dean was _there_ , in his class… about to give a report that counted as twenty percent of his grade for the semester.

 

This time, when Sam swore, it was loud and angry.

 

“God damn, son of a bitch!”

 

END CHAPTER


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

 

All told, Sam thought it was pretty commendable that his freak out over the whole _body swapping_ situation only took maybe ten minutes to work its way through his system, during which he sat numbly on the ground, staring at his - _Dean’s!_ \- hands with something that felt sort of like shocked awe with a side of horror. They’d been through some pretty fucked up stuff, but this? This took the cake. If there was a gold medal for fucked up ness, this would win, hands down. Right on the heels of the _oh, shit, Dean and I switched bodies_ freak out came the _oh, shit, my report!_ freak out.

 

That one lasted at least fifteen minutes. Sam liked to think that said something about his scholastic determination more so than his priorities. After all, there was a pretty good chance that he and Dean would be able to fix whatever the hell had caused the body switching. But a bad grade? Well, that lasted _forever_.

 

It was pain that prompted him to get moving. His hurt arm was throbbing with a dull ache that Sam was sure was going to translate pretty nicely to a heaping shitload of grief when he had a chance to clean it up. Not to mention the stitches it needed.

 

Sam climbed to his feet, wincing from the pain that seemed to have made its home in each and every corner of Dean’s body. From a twinge in his knee to hands that were bloodied and scraped. He glanced down, and even though he knew that he wasn’t in his body, it was still a shock to see jeans that were tighter than he normally wore his own, capped off at the end with Dean’s typical black work boots. 

 

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t done freaking out over the whole _changed bodies_ thing yet, he realized when his knees went a little weak. He swallowed and reached up to run a hand through his hair – nothing more than a nervous gesture – only to be brought short when he encounter his brother’s short, spiky cut instead of his own longer hair.

 

Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck!_

 

Belatedly, he wondered where Dean’s cell phone was, thought about calling his own phone just to… what? _Verify_ that everything was all fucked up, that this wasn’t some kind of whacked out dream, brought on by studying too hard or missing his family so much that it fucking _hurt_? But he didn’t. Dean would still be in class, in his body, and there was still a slim chance that his brother had somehow managed to get through the report without completely screwing up his grade for the semester.

 

Who was he kidding? Dean had probably bolted the second he realized what had happened, was in the middle of freaking out, and would call Sam on his own very, very soon.

 

Only when his knee gave another little twinge of _ow_ did Sam realize that he’d been standing there, waiting for just that to happen. He waited another minute and then sighed. 

 

Okay. First things first. Whatever had happened had to be because of something Dean did, because there was no way in hell Sam had triggered something while _sitting in class_. He looked around, eyes drawn to where the body had been when Sam first…entered it.

 

That sounded ten kinds of weird and one part just plain _wrong_ , come to think of it.

 

Sam grimaced, the lines of his face moving unfamiliarly. Everything was unfamiliar. The way that it felt to just _walk_ was alien and foreign with these shorter legs and body that wasn’t his own. The movement of his fingers, his hand, his _arm_ , for God’s sake, was creeping him out because it felt _wrongoffnotgood_.

 

The first thing he noticed when he really started looking was that he - _Dean_ \- had been inside of a circle when the switch happened. The circle itself was painted onto the dirty hardwood floor of the barn, scuffed in places but still complete and whole. With the layer of dust covering it, wiped away in some places, Sam was willing to bet that Dean hadn’t even realized he was in the circle right away. Stepping closer, Sam squatted down next to the circle, though still outside of it, and took a good look at the writing inside of the circle, the symbols that had been painted with clear detail. There was nothing that he recognized off the top of his head. Just as he was about to stand up and try to find something to write with and on – probably in the Impala – Sam noticed the blood drops. 

 

“Blood activated, huh?” he murmured, then snapped his mouth shut. As if he’d needed one more reminder that he was in Dean’s body, right? That had definitely been Dean’s voice, though. Slow and rough, like he was when he wasn’t putting on a show for anyone. Stripped bare, without pretense or cockiness. Sam wondered if he could put on as good of an act as Dean did, play the role of the arrogant womanizing SOB.

 

He doubted it.

 

Putting aside thoughts of how well he could play the role of Dean, Sam looked again at the circle and the drops of blood that had dripped onto some of the symbols. Well, if it was activated through blood, then it should be easy enough to reverse, right? He maneuvered himself into the circle, glancing down at his arm. The blood had dried into a sticky, crusty mess on his skin. Sighing, Sam dug around in Dean’s back pocket, relief flooding him when he found the pocketknife he’d expected. He flicked it open and testing the blade on the tip of his thumb. The flesh parted easily, painlessly, and a drop of blood welled up. Even Dean’s pocketknives were sharpened to deadly perfection. 

 

Sam felt a warm rush of affection slide through him on the heels of a flash of memory. Dean sitting on the bed, a few years younger than he was now, sharpening knifes and daggers and machetes, while Sam lounged on the motel bed next to him, studying for one of his junior year classes. Why was it so easy to remember times like that – the warm, comfortable times – now that they were over and done with? 

 

Without giving himself a chance to continue down that path of thought or over think what he was about to do, Sam slashed the pocket knife over the palm of his left hand, blood immediately pooling in the cup of his hand. He waited the space of a few heartbeats, letting the blood gather into a nice sized amount, and then turned his hand over, carefully drizzling the blood onto the floor, over the symbols that had been splattered before. A minute passed, then another. He tried splattering more of the blood on the floor, ignoring the ache of pain in his palm as he flexed it to get more flowing.

 

But nothing happened.

 

Sam swallowed around the lump of anxiety that had taken up residence in his throat, and swore under his breath. He closed the pocketknife and returned it to his jeans. This wasn’t going to be as easy to reverse as it had been to get into it, apparently. 

 

Ignoring the body of the thing Dean had been hunting - and, seriously, what the fuck? A guy with a cow’s head? – Sam made his way out of the barn, even managing not to stumble too badly despite the battering Dean’s body had taken and, well, the fact that it was _Dean’s_ body. And really, those inches of height shouldn’t have made that much of a difference, but they felt like it. He wasn’t used to navigating with these legs, these muscles. Everything was different.

 

He spotted the Impala parked about a hundred yards away, just off the dirt road that led up to the barn. There were no other buildings around, but Sam could see shapes moving in the darkness, heard a forlorn-sounding moo in the distance. This was apparently where the cow part of that _thing_ had come from.

 

Approaching the Impala was painful, but not because of the way his current body was feeling. Seeing the car, shiny black in the moonlight, took his breath away, brought memories charging to the fore of his mind, and generally just made him feel… lonely. He’d missed this car and the guy that drove it, not that he was ever going to admit that to Dean.

 

School was what he’d wanted. School was what he’d gotten. End of story.

 

Dean’s cell phone was lying on the passenger seat of the Impala, next to a map, but Sam didn’t give either of them more than a glance, instead rummaging around until he came up with a pen and something to write on.

 

It took him the better part of half an hour to get the design of the circle copied to the paper. He took care in making sure that each and every symbol and word was printed down just like it was on the barn’s floor. Notated where the blood had splashed, just in case it made a difference. By the time he was done, Sam was feeling dizzy and worn down, and he was very much aware of the gash on Dean’s arm that needed to be taken care of.

 

Gathering Dean’s gun from the ground, Sam looked around for anything else that he might need or that Dean would kick his ass for leaving behind. He didn’t see anything.

 

That just left the cow…thing. 

 

Sam sighed, scrubbing a hand down over his face, wincing at the feel of the stubble on his face, so much a _Dean thing_.

 

Well, he could bury the creature, just leave it where it was and hope that whoever found it didn’t freak out too much, or find some other way of destroying it.

 

Twenty minutes later, as he climbed in the Impala with the barn burning to the ground behind him, Sam decided that he’d blame the pyro response on being in _Dean’s body_ , since, yeah, that too was a Dean thing.

 

Now to figure out where the fuck he was, get a motel room so he could take care of his wounds, and then get Dean on the phone so they could arrange to meet up and figure this shit out.

 

The map on the seat beckoned silently, and Sam grabbed it without thinking. His eyes flickered over the roads and city names, landing finally on where Dean had drawn a little star. That had to be where he was right now. He knew where this was, though. The details of the map were familiar.

 

Bitterness welled up in Sam’s mouth as he tossed the map aside and shoved the key into the ignition harder than was needed. 

 

Dean had been doing a job only an hour and a half from Stanford, and he hadn’t even called Sam to say ‘hey, how’s it going?’. 

 

It hurt.

 

Well, at least he wouldn’t have to go very far. And Dean could damn well do the stitches for him. Least he could do for getting them both into this fiasco, Sam told himself.

 

When the cell phone went off two minutes down the road, Sam reached for it automatically, flicking it on without even looking at the display, and growled in Dean’s low rumble, “I’m going to kick your ass.”

 

END CHAPTER


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

 

They agreed not to talk about it on the phone, which said something about how royally freaked out about this entire thing his brother was, Dean supposed, given how much Sammy liked to run on at the mouth, particularly when he was pissed. And, boy, was little brother _pissed_. It had come through in every clipped word and growl, right over the phone. 

 

If that was what he sounded like when he was angry – wow.

 

With Sam’s directions ringing in his ears, Dean had managed to find his brother’s dorm and had made it to his room without meeting anyone that expected more than a nod of the head. That was good. Dean was pretty damn sure he couldn’t pull off the overeager geek look. That, and he knew damn well that his movements were different from Sam’s; just the way he held himself was different, the way that he moved his hands when he talked. He couldn’t pass for his brother if he had to spend any length of time with someone that really knew Sam.

 

Thank God there wasn’t a fucking roommate, in other words. The poor bastard had had an anxiety attack two months into school and had dropped out, never to be seen or heard from again by anyone on campus. It wasn’t supernatural, Sam had rushed to assure him – and Dean didn’t even know his voice could _sound_ that earnest – the kid just didn’t want to be reminded of his failures. Fine by Sam. All that meant was that he got his own room for the rest of the year, provided the campus housing committee didn’t find a stray to shove in here. Not likely.

 

Or so Sam had explained in quick bursts of speech as he directed Dean around campus. It had been fucking surreal, listening to _his voice_ , but with Sam’s words and phrasings. 

 

The room was quiet when Dean shut the door behind him. It looked like any other dorm room, he supposed. Wasn’t like he’d been in many for comparison, and all those had been chicks’ rooms, filled with posters and knick-knacks, strewn with clothes and other girly things. 

 

Sam’s room was nothing like that. On first glance, it was sort of sparse. Then again, Sammy had never really been about the decorating. Even when they were in one place for more than a couple months at a time, Sam hadn’t taken time to make the space his own whereas Dean had a few things to put on the walls that made whatever cramped house they were renting at the time seem a little more like home and a little less like just another base of operations.

 

If he wanted to overanalyze the room he was in now, Dean would say that it was a product of how Sam was raised. How he’d grown up and learned to live. 

 

But he didn’t want to think about that. It was living like that that had taken Sam away from him and Dad. That, and the whole _normal_ thing. Seriously, what the hell was so fucking wonderful about living a normal life? Where was the excitement in that? Sure, having a guarantee of a bed at night, a warm meal in the morning, that was all fine and good, but Dean didn’t see the attraction of getting up, going to work, coming home, rinse and frickin’ repeat for the rest of your life. No thrills. No spontaneity. Just… routine. 

 

Dean didn’t think he’d survive that kind of boredom very long _at all_.

 

There were little things on the side of the room that marked it as Sam’s, though, the closer Dean looked. He stood with his hands shoved down into the pockets of Sam’s baggy jeans, looking at the pictures on the nightstand. Cheap frames, the kind that could be bought as dollar stores, surrounded the handful of memories. One of Mom, one of Dad, one of Dean himself, and one of the three of them last summer at Bobby’s, grinning and looking like they’d been out in the sun too long. That had been a good week. Relaxing, drinking too much, and staying in bed too late. Even Dad had let go during that time. 

 

Good times.

 

Of course, shortly after that hell had truly broken loose between Dad and Sam. It was the beginning of the end, Sam stubborn as a mule as he ranted that he _had_ to be allowed to stay in one place for his senior year.

 

Had to.

 

If Dean had known then what Sammy had been planning – running off to college, abandoning them – he couldn’t say that he would have stuck up for him like he did. That he would have gone to bat for him with Dad, fighting for the right for his brother to have just one year of school. After that, he’d argued, they’d be on the road again. Non-stop, if that’s what Dad wanted. It wasn’t like Sammy was going to have to go to school anymore. Nothing more to tie them down. 

 

Right?

 

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

 

Sam’s diploma was on one narrow shelf that hung over the head of the bed, cream-colored paper in a blue folder that looked more plastic than the leather he guessed it was supposed to imitate. Maybe he’d never said it to him, but Dean had been proud as hell that day. 

 

There was a cheap-looking mirror hanging on the wall over the dresser, the kind of thing that Dean could tell his brother had picked up at a second hand shop. Bracing himself, Dean stepped in front of it.

 

Knowing that he was in Sam’s body and being confronted with _proof_ of it in the form of his brother’s dorky face staring back at him in the mirror were two different things. For one second the rational part of his mind – the part that was sure that body-swapping was something that could only happen in his nightmares – was convinced that his eyes were playing tricks on him. That he was looking at a picture of Sam and not in the mirror.

 

Then he blinked, and that part of his brain stomped noisily into the corner of his mind and shut down completely. 

 

This was happening. This was really, really happening.

 

Well, shit.

 

He lifted a hand, eyes tracking long-fingers as they brushed through the too-shaggy hair that hung from his – _Sam’s, damnit!_ \- head. 

 

Okay. He couldn’t do this anymore right now. After the initial adrenaline rush of the switch and the frantic pace of trying to maintain some semblance of _everything is all right_ long enough to get out of Sam’s class without blowing his little brother’s grades all to shit, he was _tired_. Exhausted, even.

 

Sighing, Dean let his – Sam’s! – eyes drop to the bed. It was rumpled, but made, and it looked like a little piece of heaven to Dean. According to Sam’s best estimate, he’d been an hour and a half to two hours away. And he hadn’t missed the hurt in the words. 

 

_No, Sammy_ , Dean thought as he lowered Sam’s longer, leaner frame onto the bed, shuffling around and trying to get comfortable on a mattress that was, at best, only just barely long enough for his toes not to stick over the edge. _I hadn’t been planning on dropping in._

 

Sam hadn’t asked, but that was the answer if he did. And if Sam asked why Dean hadn’t planned on, you know, dropping by to catch up on old times –

 

Well, damn if Dean knew what he’d say then. He was sort of hoping that they could both skip all the emotional reunion, finger pointing bullshit and just work on getting the whole _body-swapping_ thing straightened out as soon as possible. The longer they were stuck like this, the more likely it was that Dad was going to call for him. And there was no way in hell that Sam would be able to pull off talking to Dad, much less having to go meet up with him for a job. They’d have to come clean to him, and then things would really go south because that would mean that Dad would get mad at _him_ for not being more careful on the hunt to begin with, for blundering into a circle of any kind without knowing first what it would do to him. And then there would be serious drama while Dad and Sam fought each other tooth and nail every chance they got, over the stupidest little things.

 

No, he definitely didn’t want Dad to find out about this until it was over and done with, if then.

 

Dean rolled so that he was lying on his stomach, one arm hanging down over the edge of the bed, fingers brushing the floor. Sammy sure was a big son-of-a-bitch, he thought with a soft, tired sigh, shutting his eyes.

 

Knocking on the door woke him up, and Dean blinked blearily over at it, yawning as he crawled to a sitting position. He leveraged himself up to his feet and swayed, completely off balance. Right. Body-swapping. He was in _Sam’s body_.

 

And that was Sam on the other side of the door, too. Well, Sam in _his_ body, that was. Because he could hear his own voice through the wood. “Damnit, Dean, if you’re in there open the door.”

 

Low and filled with heated gravel. It was a growl.

 

Sounded damn good, too. No wonder all he needed to do most of the time was whisper something sweet someone’s ear to get them glazed-eyed and panting. He smirked, the expression feeling odd on Sam’s face.

 

This was going to be weirder than normal, he told himself right before he opened the door, trying to brace himself for seeing Sam in his body.

 

It didn’t work. The second he opened the door and saw Sam standing there, pissy face plastered over looks that had gotten Dean called “pretty” on more than one occasion, Dean felt the freak out he’d managed to avoid up to that point start to kick in.

 

Sam looked up at the top of Dean’s - _his_ , oh God that was weird – head and his lips curled up. Dean reached up, patting down the bed head look as best as he could. “You were sleeping? Seriously? Figures you get the better end of this deal.”

 

Dean was about to argue that it wasn’t exactly like Sam had gotten the short end of the stick when he took a second to _really_ look at his body and remember what he’d been doing before the swap happened. Fighting. And the clothes that Sam had on were covered in blood, torn in places. He’d washed off as much as he could from his face and hands, and tossed on a flannel to hide the damage to his chest and arms, but even so Dean could see enough – and remember even more – to know that Sam was _right_. He’d definitely lucked out. 

 

“Shit. Get in here.” He saw the duffel as Sam pushed into the room, knew without asking that he’d brought the first aid kit up out of the car. The stiff movements spoke more of pain than any verbal lashing Sam could give him, and Dean grabbed the duffel from him without saying a word, all too aware that this was his fault. The body-swapping. The fact that the body Sammy was in was all jacked up, needed stitches, and was aching like a mother.

 

Yeah, pretty much all his damn fault.

 

Still, he wasn’t about to admit that. Gruffly ordering Sam to take his shirts off, Dean opened the first aid kit. He wasn’t used to working with Sam’s hands, and threading the needle took long enough that the painkillers that Sam popped from the bottle in the kit had already started working and the area was cleaned with an alcohol swab before Dean was ready to start.

 

So far they hadn’t said much of anything to one another. How the hell did you start that conversation anyway? Whether it was about the body-swapping or about Sammy leaving to go to college. Fuck. They could just try to dive right in and bitch and moan at each other like they used to, but something was off. Something was missing. And it had nothing to do with the fact that they were in each other’s bodies. 

 

Whatever it was, Dean missed it. 

 

With a shaky sigh, he started stitching his body up, silently apologizing to Sam that he was the one dealing with the pain.

 

END CHAPTER


End file.
